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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27979224">don't regret the treasured moments</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/heademptydickout/pseuds/heademptydickout'>heademptydickout</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, and wilford is kinda crazy, dark is just really sad, dark is so out of character pls just love this version of him, he is soft and not that murdery, he just wants to love wilford but they're interdimensional beings and feelings are hard, im a pussy w writing sex scenes dont judge me, kind of</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:41:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,405</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27979224</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/heademptydickout/pseuds/heademptydickout</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Damien always did tend to shy away whenever Wilford managed to get close, as was the way between friends turned temporary lovers. What Wilford wouldn’t give to be able to hold Damien close all the time – to press tender kisses to his oft-furrowed brow, to intertwine their fingers as they walked the manor gardens, to whisper the three words in the universe that held power to him even as time lost its meaning . . .</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Damien | The Mayor/Wilford Warfstache | William J. Barnum | The Colonel, Darkiplier/Wilford Warfstache, Mark Fishbach/Mark Fishbach</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>don't regret the treasured moments</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>okay stick with me through the first couple paragraphs because they're rough, i promise it gets good. also this is so guilty-pleasure of me but I'm a sucker for the whole "Wilford breaks and thinks Dark is Damien" trope. it might be the existential dread talking but I absolutely love the tension and angst. anyway. this was just a fun thing for me to write while i avoid finals. don't judge me for the barely-there sex at the end I'm such a wimp when it comes to writing smut.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     Wilford stumbles across the manor threshold a few hours before dawn, barely coherent, bleeding at the lip, and collapses on the kitchen tile. He hardly expected to make it back at all, what with the insanity rapidly clouding his thoughts until all he sees is bubblegum pink and running crimson. Idly, he fingers the pistol tucked carelessly in the waistband of his trousers, wondering what it might feel like to turn the instrument on himself in what would be his grandest joke yet.</p><p>     Shuffling footsteps nearing, he notices, and turns onto his back so that it’s more obvious to whichever ego he woke up that he is, in fact, still alive and breathing. For how much longer he can’t say, although it would be a shame to submit his powers to the universe for redistribution. Wilford rather likes his ability to warp time and space, despite the uncomfortable and maddening side-effects.</p><p>     “Wil?”</p><p>     The voice is gravely and soft, and Wilford closes his eyes at the wonderful sound of it. “Damien? Is that you dearest? I rather hoped you would be the one to find me like this.”</p><p>     A heavy moment of silence passes, and the pink-haired madman wonders if his teasing tone has made the Mayor skittish. Damien always did tend to shy away whenever Wilford managed to get close, as was the way between friends turned temporary lovers. What Wilford wouldn’t give to be able to hold Damien close all the time – to press tender kisses to his oft-furrowed brow, to intertwine their fingers as they walked the manor gardens, to whisper the three words in the universe that held power to him even as time lost its meaning . . .</p><p>     Soon the quiet is too much, and Wilford breaks it with a soft huff. “I apologize, my good friend. I shouldn’t call you pet names when we rarely speak to one another anymore.”</p><p>     He opens his eyes, glaring up at the figure silhouetted by the moonlight beaming through the kitchen windows. The jab is meant to elicit a reaction, an emotion, anything that Wilford can cling to and believe that the man he loves feels something other than indifference towards him.</p><p>     Dark peers down, tears caught in his throat, as he tries desperately to formulate a response that won’t end in murder, suicide, or both. Wilford had been gone for so long he had thought him caught in a time web, forever forced to relive moments not in whatever present Dark existed in. Now that he’s back, Dark is unsurprised that the poor excuse for a man is lost in a delusion of the past.</p><p>     “You surprised me, Wil, that’s all,” Dark says gently, praying the shadows and Wilford’s obvious intoxication are enough to hide the glassy look in his eyes and the catch in his words. “Can I help you to bed?”</p><p>     A grin so wide and showing so many teeth that Dark is afraid the skin of his cheeks is slashed back grows on Wilford’s face. Energy seems to fill him once again, the madness clearing for half a moment. Enough of a moment that he tosses the pistol to the side and hops to his feet, hope radiating from every square inch of his body.</p><p>     “Of course Dames, of course,” he slurs, wobbling a bit more than he ought just to get the other man to wrap a steadying arm around his waist. Dark rolls his eyes, knowing his partner’s plot, but does so anyway. As if he would ever pass up the chance to get his hands on Wilford.</p><p>     The interaction is so normal, so typically Wilford, that Dark forgets that he has to pretend to be Damien.</p><p>     <em>Just for the night</em>, he thinks<em>. By morning, Wilford will be back to normal. He’ll probably forget this entirely</em>.</p><p>     They hobble to the winding staircase, taking each step slow and steady so that Dark doesn’t collapse under Wilford’s weight. Dark takes a moment to thank whatever cosmic forces may or may not exist that the other egos remain fast asleep, leaving him the only witness to Wilford’s break. It’s always hard for him to keep track of everything when he leaves, especially when he stays away for a while. Better that Dark is here to pretend than any of them, who might set Wilford off by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.</p><p>     Once they reach Wilford’s huge master bedroom, the door shut quietly behind them, Dark begins to divest the other man of his clothes in what he prays is the most nonsexual way possible. He needs to get Wil into pajamas and under the covers so he can sleep off whatever fantasy he’s caught himself in.</p><p>     Unfortunately, Wil takes it exactly as Dark hoped he wouldn’t.</p><p>     “You really get down to business, dearest,” Wilford growls, a hand falling onto Dark’s head as he kneels to take off the man’s shoes. Dark snorts and ignores the gesture, even as familiar calloused fingers thread through his hair, and yanks the pink and yellow socks off his feet. Those get tossed to the side as he stands again, Wil’s hand falling back to his side with a disappointed grunt.</p><p>     “And you need to get down to resting,” Dark shoots back, unclipping Wil’s trademark suspenders and setting them with a slight bit of reverence on the nearby dresser. “I’m not in the mood to sleep with someone who’s obviously piss-drunk.”</p><p>     Wil raises his arms to allow the other man pull his shirt off his shoulders. “Not that drunk,” he grumbles, looking away. Damien always seems to see straight through him. It’s probably why he loves him so much.</p><p>     He doesn’t know he’s said the last bit out loud, and remains ignorant to the fact even as Dark freezes, the heartbreak hitting him once again directly in the chest. He takes a few deep breaths, calming himself as much as he can, and continues the task in front of him before Wilford notices he’s stopped.</p><p>     Dark manages to get fleece pants and a soft shirt on Wilford’s body in record time, considering all of the other occasions on which the madman has returned home dead-drunk and incapable of undressing himself. Luckily the borderline-alcoholic in question is so tired by the end of the process that he is content to let Dark push him onto the bed and pull the comforter up to his chin without much protest.</p><p>     “Goodnight Wil,” Dark murmurs, pressing a kiss to his forehead and making to leave. A surprisingly quick hand stops him in his tracks, Wilford’s grip bruising and intentional for someone who appeared for the past thirty minutes to be beyond intoxicated.</p><p>     “Stay,” he says simply, voice deep and no longer slurred. Dark feels his face heat at the obvious implication, something about the situation different from their usual romps in the sheets. He knows it’s because Wil thinks that he’s Damien, the man he used to love to the ends of the Earth. While there is still affection between them, they’ve never come close to that sort of emotion in these forms.</p><p>     Dark hesitates before responding.</p><p>     “Wil . . .” he whispers, recognizing even as he says it that he will cave. Be it now or in an hour, after he tosses and turns and cannot fall asleep because he’s haunted by honey-colored eyes and the phantom sensation of a bushy mustache at his neck.  </p><p>     “Please,” Wilford adds quietly, the singular word cracking a bit with feelings he won’t admit to Damien, no matter how much he wishes he could. At least in this way, he can pretend the man standing above him, trapped by his hand on his wrist, reciprocates what gnaws at his heart with sharp teeth and intensity.</p><p>     Dark crawls into bed with Wilford that night, knowing in the morning he will regret it. He knows it as his partner makes love to him sweetly, gently, always whispering praises and declarations of love in his ear. He knows it as tears fall down his face when he finishes, as Wil holds him close to his chest and shushes him while running kind fingers through his hair. He knows it as Wil murmurs a soft “Sweet dreams, Damien my love,” and his heart clenches painfully in his chest.</p><p>     In the morning he will regret it. But as much as he does, he will treasure the moments of being who he once was to the man he loves even more.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>im on tumblr! @heademptydickout feel free to DM me there :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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